Lilac Spring (3 page)

“Do you think things will pick up?” she asked.

“Hard to say. There’s still a lot of building going on farther down the coast.”

“Do you think Henry was right to head south?”

He shrugged. “Some say the days of sail are numbered. The opening of the Suez Canal in ’69 spelled the beginning of the end for the clipper trade.”

“But what about us here down east? Apart from the passenger steamer service from Boston and Portland, we don’t see much use for steam. All the fishermen sail, even out to the Grand Banks.”

“Yes, I think there’s still a demand for the smaller fishing schooners and those used in the coastal trade. But eventually I see even those supplementing their vessels with steam.” He shrugged. “And more and more of the larger schooners are being built with steel hulls. I don’t know if they’ll prove more successful than wood, but the fact is, shipping companies look at cost. The steel hull will probably last longer than the wood. Most of the larger ships’ hulls are now steel reinforced.”

Cherish turned back to the model. “Oh, well, let’s hope these changes don’t come too quickly. Right now we have a loft to lay out and a mold to build.”

He looked down at her indulgently, encouraged as always by her optimism. “There’s that word ‘we’ again. Do you propose to help me build the mold?”

“If you’re agreeable.”

He didn’t say anything, not wanting to dash her hopes. He realized as he watched her that it was good to have her back—even an adult version of the girl who’d seek him out every chance she got and “discuss” things with him, from every aspect of boats to the latest storybook character she had read about.

“Your father has agreed to this?” he asked finally, his arms folded in front of him.

“Don’t worry about Papa. I’ll take care of him.”

“You’ve been taking care of him quite some years now. I wonder if he’ll ever discover it.”

“Papa doesn’t know the talent he has right under his roof. So it looks as if, now that I’m back, I shall have to show him.” When he didn’t reply, she continued. “You ought to be Papa’s successor. If he can’t see that, well, he will, if I have anything to say about it.”

He turned away his gaze, not reminding her of his own dream—she probably didn’t even remember it. “I still have to be down on the yard,” he reminded her instead.

“So spend your mornings there.” She stood and went to the window. “There are more than enough men down there. You said yourself things were slow. There’s no reason you can’t spend your afternoons up here.” She turned to him, making a
face. “I have agreed to spend my mornings with Aunt Phoebe, learning to run a house. But after that, I’m free. Papa said I could help out here.”

“You have it all worked out.”

She gave him a secret smile. “Papa will be convinced, you’ll see. He’ll realize your talent, and he’ll see I have a head for business. He’s already taking me with him to Hatsfield tomorrow to visit the Townsends’ operation.”

So that’s what she’d meant about her fashionable attire.

“Apropos, do you know anything of the Townsends? They were at the party yesterday.”

“Not much. Townsend’s a lumber baron. They’re important in Hatsfield—that’s about all I know.”

“I shall charm them with my European polish, and they will order a fleet of coastal schooners from our yard.”

He frowned at the sudden picture of Cherish laughing and batting her thick, dark lashes at the tall, handsome, impeccably groomed Warren Townsend.

The next morning Cherish took extra care with her toilette, wearing a deep rose gown with white ruffle collar and cuffs. She stuck in a pair of coral earrings and pulled her hair back in a thick coil, knowing the sail would play havoc with anything fancier. She pinned on a pert straw hat with ribbons that matched the gown and pulled back the short net veil. Then, she clipped on a matching pair of gold bracelets she’d purchased in Florence.

She and her father rode in their buggy along the road down to the harbor. From the top of a slope they could see the village of Haven’s End set snug against a hilly curve of land. White houses nestled along its edges and up the surrounding hills. Three long wharves jutted out from the land into the protected harbor, which was filled with moored boats. Beyond, at its mouth, lay a wooded island.

Her father dropped her off at the harbor and went to stable the horse and buggy. Silas was waiting on the wharf, dressed in a creamy, cabled sweater and pea jacket. Although the May day promised to warm up, Cherish knew it would be cold on
the water. She had brought along a duffel coat, which she carried on one arm.

“Good morning,” she greeted him.

“Good morning,” he replied, his gray eyes taking in her appearance. “You’re looking smart.”

If the compliment wasn’t all she’d hoped for, at least it
was
a compliment. Her efforts had been worth it. “Thank you,” she answered demurely.

He took her coat and parasol, and she climbed down the catwalk after him to the awaiting skiff. Silas held out his hand to her as she stepped into the bobbing boat. Her father returned and loosened the painter before joining them.

She settled aft and waited for her father to descend. He coiled the line and gave a nod to Silas to shove off.

Silas sat forward and pulled at the oars, heading toward her father’s pinky schooner moored amidst the other fishing boats in the harbor.

As soon as they arrived, Silas jumped aboard the schooner, and her father threw him the line. When the skiff lay alongside the pinky, her father climbed in and turned to help Cherish in. She took the line from her father. “I’ll secure it,” she told him.

He loosed the pinky’s mooring line as Silas ran the foresail up the mast. Cherish went immediately and helped him with the lines. Her father took the tiller while Silas and Cherish trimmed the sail, and they maneuvered the vessel out of the crowded harbor.

They left behind the briny smells of the harbor and the shriek of gulls and headed out to sea. Silas hoisted the mainsail and jib. The cloth caught and filled with the wind, sending the vessel skimming over the inky-blue water.

Cherish went to sit beside Silas when he took over the tiller from her father. They sailed past the rocky, evergreen-wooded coast. Farmhouses were visible above the bays, but the tips of the peninsulas were woodland, the thickly growing spruce and balsam fir black against the rising sun. They navigated through narrows and channels between the coastal islands, some
wooded, others bare, rocky fortresses withstanding the relentless battering of waves.

Cherish breathed deeply of the crisp breeze. Her glance met Silas’s and she smiled. He smiled back and she knew they needed no words to express the enjoyment of being in a well-built craft upon the sea. She closed her eyes and lifted her head heavenward, feeling the sun on her face, the wind whipping at her cheeks. It was good to be alive. She praised God for all she’d seen and done, but most of all that she was home at last, close to the man she loved, within reach of her dream.

All too soon they arrived in the tidal river leading up to the town of Hatsfield. Hatsfield was larger than Haven’s End, and Cherish eagerly noted the number of schooners, brigs and barks arrived from different ports.

Silas lowered the sails and dropped anchor. She and her father climbed aboard the skiff once again as Silas stayed to secure the sails and leave everything shipshape.

“I’ll send someone back with the skiff,” her father told him. With a final wave, they left him. Cherish looked back at him, wishing he were going with them.

She turned her attention to the busy port. Stacks of logs lined the quay. Loads of shingles and shooks and freshly sawn lumber waited to be loaded onto the ships that brought barrels of molasses, dry goods, salt and grain from places afar.

“Winslow!” called a voice from farther down the wharf.

“Morning, Townsend,” her father answered as he advanced to meet Townsend senior and his son.

Warren Townsend and his father presented an imposing pair of gentlemen, Cherish noted as the two men approached them. Warren was dressed in the manner of the young men in Boston, in contrast to the young farmers and fishermen down east. He wore a fine gray frock coat and matching vest and trousers, his boots polished to a shine. He was clean shaven, his hair, a rich brown, cut short.

Mr. Townsend sent his son to escort Cherish to their home.

“Mrs. Townsend and Annalise are awaiting you,” Townsend senior told her.

“We’ll be up for dinner,” her father added.

“I shall see you and Silas then,” she said, giving him a peck on the cheek.

They rode along the river, past stately homes. Just before entering the main town of Hatsfield, they turned into a tree-lined drive before a white-columned portico fronting a Greek revival house.

“Welcome to our home,” Mrs. Townsend told her. She was a handsome-looking woman, with light brown hair and a stylish dress. “Annalise has been telling me what a nice visit she had with you and what a good hostess you were to her.”

Cherish turned to smile at the bespectacled girl, surprised that she had made such a favorable comment. If the girl had enjoyed herself at all, it was thanks to Silas. She couldn’t remember Annalise having said more than two words to her. “I’m glad you enjoyed yourself, Miss Townsend.”

“Come, let us go inside, shall we?” Mrs. Townsend said.

They chatted amiably for a while in a back parlor, although Cherish realized she and Mrs. Townsend did most of the talking.

“Warren, why don’t you escort the young ladies around the gardens? I think the day is warm enough for a walk.”

“I’m sure I should enjoy that, Mrs. Townsend.” She rose as soon as Warren stood, relieved to leave the overstuffed parlor for a while. Annalise followed suit.

“Annalise, put on your wrap.”

“Yes, Mama,” she murmured.

They walked onto the slate porch that ran the length of the rear of the house. Warren offered them both an arm and proceeded down wide flagstone steps.

They walked all the way down to the water’s edge, where the Townsends had a small dock. After a few moments of contemplating the river, they strode back up to a cedar bench amidst the flower beds.

Cherish racked her brain for a conversation starter. She didn’t feel she had done anything for her father yet.

“Did you truly enjoy yourself at my house the other day?” she asked Annalise.

“Oh, yes,” she answered softly.

“I would have been overwhelmed, having to meet so many strangers all at once.”

“Perhaps she was a bit,” Warren answered for her. “But you stayed by her side. The young man who was with us—I don’t recall his name—was also very attentive.”

“That was Silas van der Zee. He’s been with our family since he was twelve. He works with Papa in the boat shop.”

“We must have him come back with you the next time, then.”

“Oh, you’ll surely meet him today. He sailed over with us. He’ll be by with Papa.”

“That’s fine,” Warren said with a smile at his sister.

“I do hope the two of you can come back to Haven’s End again,” Cherish said after a bit. She thought quickly. “I’d like to give another party. Perhaps with a little dancing and games this time.”

“We would look forward to that.”

Cherish breathed a sigh of relief when the dinner hour approached and they decided to head back to the house. Her father would have returned.

When she saw he was alone, she asked him, “Where’s Silas?”

“Oh, he’ll get something to eat down at the wharf.”

Cherish tightened her lips, not saying anything. How could he have Silas come along and then treat him like nothing but a hired hand?

She would make it up to Silas, she promised herself.

A
fter breakfast the next day, Cherish reported to her aunt in the kitchen. “I am yours to command, Auntie.”

“We’ll be baking, so get on a big apron if you don’t want to be covered in flour,” the woman replied without looking up.

“I’m going for a picnic this noon with Silas. Do you think the bread will be ready by then?”

Aunt Phoebe gave her a sharp glance from behind her wire-rimmed spectacles. “You’re not still thinking the sun and moon sets on Silas, after traipsing over the Continent, meeting who knows how many young gentlemen?”

“Silas is the finest man I know.”

Aunt Phoebe placed a large earthenware bowl in front of Cherish on the worktable. “Set the cake of yeast in here with the sugar and put about a cup of milk on the stove to warm.

“Well, perhaps it’s more than a schoolgirl’s fancy if it’s lasted this long,” her aunt conceded. “If it is, you’ve got more sense than I credited you with.”

She brought a large crock of flour out of the pantry. “We’re making four loaves, so we’ll need a good bit of flour. That milk should be about ready. Test it on the inside of your arm. It should feel just warm enough to stand.”

“Yes, that’s what it feels like.”

“All right, bring it over and pour it over the yeast.” After she’d done so and let the yeast work a few minutes, her aunt dumped in some cupfuls of flour.

“Still, I hope you won’t be disappointed in Silas. I’ve known him since he was a lad. He’s grown to be such a nice young man, but sometimes I wonder what’s going on behind those gray eyes. He’s never given me any trouble, not like my Henry,” she added with a shake of her head. “He’s never gotten drunk to my knowledge, never uttered a profanity, nor gambled away his money. I admire those things about him—but as I said, I wonder sometimes…”

“Whatever do you mean?” Cherish asked, never having heard her aunt voice a concern about Silas.

She sighed. “Sometimes it seems as if something’s hurt him so deep, he’s buried all his natural feelings. I wouldn’t want you getting hurt by a want of feeling on his part. You’re a sensitive girl, a giving soul. I don’t know…some people can’t give what they don’t have.”

“I don’t believe that of Silas,” Cherish answered, emphasizing her remark with a decisive punch at the gooey dough, which succeeded only in stirring up the flour Aunt Phoebe had just emptied into the bowl. Cherish waved away the cloud of flour threatening to go up her nostrils. “I think Silas is a very sensitive person.”

“Well, you never can tell about people,” her aunt answered philosophically. “Sometimes no matter how long you live with someone, you still have no idea what lies beneath the surface, what—or
who
—it’ll take to awaken ’em.”

She poured in some more flour.

“How am I supposed to mix this? It’s so heavy and dry!”

“You just work it in good with your hands—you’ll see how smooth it gets. The more you knead it, the softer the bread’ll be.” Her aunt went to get the bread pans and began to grease them.

“I’ve always treated Silas like my own Henry. Your father didn’t hold with that, but I put my foot down, and I’m glad to
say your mother, God rest her soul, did, too. We always sat him down with us at the table with the rest of the family. Your father wanted Silas to sit in here in the kitchen and take his meals with Celia and Jacob.

“‘Oh, no,’ I said, ‘Silas is going to sit at the table with us, where I can keep my eye on him and teach him his manners.’ His mother entrusted him to us. I was going to do right by him.”

“This dough feels good now. Like a big pillow, but my arms are aching.”

Her aunt prodded the dough. “It’s coming, but you’re not through. Sprinkle some flour on the table and turn the dough onto it and begin kneading it.” Her aunt stood beside her until satisfied she was doing it right. “Keep that up a good ten minutes and you’ll have the softest, lightest bread you’ve ever bit into.”

“Ten minutes!” This was worse than sanding a plank of wood.

“Just think how good those sandwiches are going to taste on that picnic,” her aunt said placidly as she began gathering up the used utensils.

Picturing Silas biting into a slice of her freshly baked bread, his eyes lighting up in pleasure, Cherish leaned into the dough with a new will.

“That’s my girl.”

Aunt Phoebe poured hot water from the stove into the dishpan. “I don’t know why your father has never given Silas the credit he deserves. According to what you’ve told me over the years, he has more talent in one little finger than Henry ever had—and that’s my son I’m talking about.”

“I’ve wondered that myself. I love Papa dearly, but sometimes I could just shake him the way he treats Silas. Take yesterday. Can you believe he didn’t take him along to have dinner with the Townsends? He left him to fend for himself on the docks as if he were just an ordinary deckhand.”

Aunt Phoebe stopped in her act of wiping off the table. “Is that the reason for the picnic today?” Her knowing blue eyes looked deep into Cherish’s.

Cherish could feel her cheeks warming. “Partially. It’s also a beautiful day for a picnic, and I haven’t had a chance to have a good chat with Silas since I’ve been back.”

Her aunt smiled in understanding, her face softening. “You go and have a good time. I’ll take care of your father.” She sighed. “Sometimes I’ve thought Tom resented Silas’s talent, resented the fact it’s in a stranger, come out of nowhere, and not in the son he wishes he’d had.”

Two dainty booted feet beneath a ruffled white gown sprigged with lavender flowers appeared at the edge of Silas’s vision.

He gave one last whack with the adze against the timber. Curls of wood chips went flying. Resting the metal head of the tool lightly against the plank he was forming out of a long piece of lumber, he straightened. Wiping the back of his arm against his forehead, he shoved aside the hair that kept falling forward. “Hello, there. What are you doing down here?”

“Come to fetch you.” Cherish was like a breath of cool sea breeze on the hot beach. She carried a picnic hamper in one hand and twirled a white parasol over her shoulder with the other.

“Where?” He laid down the adze on the pebbly beach and took a handkerchief from his shirt pocket to wipe his face.

“You and I are going on a picnic.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, so put away your things. I want to sail over to the meadow on Allison’s Bay.”

The idea was tempting. Then he looked at the pile of lumber still to be shaped into planks for the schooner standing over him like a giant elephant carcass, its ribs held together by scaffolding. “I don’t think I can leave right now.”

She followed his line of vision to the hull. “Nonsense. It’s almost dinnertime anyway. I’ve already told Aunt Phoebe not to expect us. Besides, you promised to spend the afternoons with me up in the workshop. We’re already a day behind.”

“I’d better tell your father,” he began, rolling down his shirtsleeves and buttoning the cuffs.

“Already taken care of.”

He eyed her, wondering what wiles she’d used on old man Winslow. The only one who could soften that man was his daughter. “Let me get cleaned up. I won’t be but a minute,” Silas told her, and headed toward the boat shop. Quickly he put on a clean shirt. Whistling, he came back down the stairs.

The day was indeed beautiful. Although spring didn’t come down east until May, once it came, it arrived in full force. Silas rowed them out to his own boat, a twenty-seven-foot yawl he’d built himself from stem post to stern. The name
Sea Princess
was painted along its bow.

He loved this boat, its sleek wooden lines, its full white sails, the way it handled under his guidance.

“We’ve got a strong northwest wind. We’ll be able to run her pretty clear,” he told her as he sheeted the mainsail close. It filled with the wind, making great clapping noises as he tugged on the sheets.

Once clear of the harbor, he worked the tiller and line, Cherish seated beside him.

She smiled. “May I?”

He gave a brief nod, relinquishing the tiller to her. She knew these waters as well as he.

“How do you like her?”

“She’s wonderful.”

Silas glanced at Cherish. The wind whipped at her ponytail. She brought a hand up to her forehead to keep the strands of hair out of her face. A smile played along her mouth. She looked as if she were enjoying herself to the full.

“I remember you were still working on her the last time I was here.”

“Mmm-hmm,” he answered.

“Why haven’t you named her after someone?
Sea Princess,
that could be anybody.”

He shrugged. “There’s no one to name her after.”

She gazed at him under her brows. “How unromantic of you.”

He looked away, not having given it much thought until then. “I guess my romance is with the sea,” he said after a moment.

They didn’t have far to sail, the site suggested by Cherish being only the next bay over. They passed Ferguson Point, with its pebbly cove and beautiful house far above it overlooking the ocean, before heading into the bay. As they reached the spot Cherish indicated, he began reefing in the sail. After dropping the anchor, they rowed the short distance to shore in the skiff.

He jumped out into the shallow water to pull the boat up onto the beach. Cherish stood to get out.

“Hey, don’t get your feet wet,” he cautioned. He hesitated an instant, wondering at the same moment why he did so. But one glance at her delicate-looking white kid boots settled it. He leaned forward to pick her up. He’d done the same thing a hundred times when she’d been younger—why did he vacillate now? She was the same girl—only bigger.

She immediately put her arms around his neck and laughed, a sound of sheer delight. His arms held her under her arms and knees, his fingers feeling the soft fabric of her gown, his nostrils catching the same soft fragrance of perfume. He strode the few steps to dry ground and let her down as quickly as possible, wondering at the change in him. Assisting her should not have had such an effect on him.

She slid her hands down from his neck to his chest before letting go completely. “Thank you, Silas,” she said, her voice breathless, her blue eyes alight with amusement, as if she were conscious of the queer sensations running through him.

The awareness passed as soon as she stepped away from him, and he shoved the incident from his mind. He concentrated on securing the line, then going back to get the hamper.

Cherish had already walked on ahead, heading up the disused path that led from the beach to a meadow above on higher ground.

The grass of the field was just beginning to turn green, and it was covered in a carpet of white.

“Oh, the bluets!” Cherish stooped to examine the tiny flowers, which up close weren’t white, but pale blue four-pointed stars.

Silas found a spot sheltered from the breeze but still in sight of the bay. Cherish came back with a tiny bouquet, which she tucked into her neckline. Silas turned away, willing himself not to notice the narrow wedge of pale skin where her gown came together. Unfortunately, the sprig of flowers only served to call attention to it.

She knelt by the basket and opened the lid. “We can spread this out,” she said, taking out a red-checked cloth. He grabbed two corners, glad to have something constructive to do. The bright cloth billowed in the air as they held it.

Silas went to retrieve some stones with which to anchor it. When he returned, Cherish had placed the food in an inviting display on the cloth, and he realized how hungry he was.

“Here.” She handed him a thick sandwich. “Bread baked this morning. My first culinary endeavor since I’ve been back, I shall have you know.”

The sandwich looked inviting, spread thick with butter and stuffed with slices of ham and cheese. She took out a mason jar and removed the lid. “Sweet tea. I didn’t bring any glasses, so we shall have to share this between us.” She set it down against the basket.

“Everything looks delicious,” he said, wanting to make her feel good about her efforts in the kitchen with her aunt.

When she had served herself, she sat across from him and smiled. “This is my private homecoming.” She looked out across the bay. “I thank God for the privilege of seeing a bit of this great, vast world, but I’m even more thankful to be back home to my small corner of it.” She took a deep breath, her eyes half-closed, her chest rising and falling, drawing Silas’s gaze once more to the flowers tucked there.

“This is one of those ‘moments of azure hue’ Thoreau wrote about, don’t you think? How I missed this smell—sea, sun, a
hint of sweetgrass and an indefinable something else.” She opened her eyes and focused on him once again. “Perhaps its essence is the company I longed for, the faces I grew up with.”

Once again he had the sensation she was referring specifically to him. Before he could think about it further, she bowed her head and gave thanks for the food. She peeped up at him again as she said “amen.”

“I hope you like it. My arms are still sore from kneading dough!”

He found it hard to think beyond the fact of Cherish’s womanhood and how it was affecting him.

He bit into the bread—soft and wholesome tasting, the ham smoky and salty, the homemade cheese sharp, the mustard gracing it all adding just the right amount of tangy spice.

“Well, you haven’t spit it out or choked on it, so I suppose it will pass.”

“It’s very good,” he hastened to say.

They ate in silence some moments. When she took the jar of cold tea and put her head back to drink from it, Silas couldn’t help noticing her neck, long and graceful as she took deep drafts from the jar.

Then she lowered her head and handed it to him. He reached out his arm and took it slowly. How many times had they done similar things years back? He held the cold glass jar and looked at it, hesitating, the act suddenly taking on intimate proportions. He tilted his head back and sipped from the same liquid she’d drunk from.

She rummaged in the basket again and brought out something in a napkin. “
La pièce de résistance,
or should I say the final test?” She unveiled the item, revealing golden tarts. “Strawberry preserve tarts, also baked this morning.”